


you did not go alone; part of us went with you

by thespottedowl



Category: Banana Bus Squad
Genre: Blindness, Child Death, DONT READ IF IT MAY BE TRIGGERING, Grief/Mourning, I Wrote This While Crying, I'm sad and stressed, Lovers Being Supportive, Minor Character Death, Multi, Outside Perspective of a Child's Death, Seizures, Terminal Illnesses, and so I will make u all the same, but idc I'm sad, might be a lil off, most of them are porn, not all my works are sad I promise, this is. boy. the whole fic is the kid dying, to be very clear: THE CHILD DIES, vent fic, vent fic vent fic vent fic, yes this is about my siblings so the parent/sibling aspect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:41:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25459486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thespottedowl/pseuds/thespottedowl
Summary: up abovea small childswings, blanketedby angel wingswhen she rocksall heaven singsa lullaby of love.
Relationships: Tyler | I AM WILDCAT/Kelly | Nilkski/Anthony | BigJigglyPanda
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	you did not go alone; part of us went with you

Tyler is weary in a way that Anthony doesn’t know how to fix.

And that’s the frustrating part of it, really, because Anthony and Tyler are friends, and so much more so than that, and Tyler is so... something, so tired, and it makes a lump rise in Anthony’s throat because there’s nothing he can do about it.

* * *

It started a long time ago, actually, before Anthony was a part of it. Little Samantha, who, at eight, was supposed to be all gappy-teethed smiles and pig-tails, started squinting to see the whiteboard in class. The story gets hazy from there — neither Tyler nor Brock likes talking about it, and after the first drained, ‘Nam-flashback gaze, Anthony doesn’t ask a second time. From what he can gather, they go to an ophthalmologist, and then to get an MRI, and then back to the ophthalmologist, and then they fly to Washington, DC, because they’re scared and the doctors are vague and concerning and Samantha is still losing her vision.

Brock looks pained when he tries to explain it from there, because Anthony asked, once, but there’s no answer then. The little family comes home, and Samantha doesn’t wear glasses because it doesn’t help.

When he asks, the one, singular time, it’s just because he’s worried, that’s all. Tyler’s been having a bad week, and that means Sammie’s been having a terrible week.

And even when Anthony wasn’t playing with the squad full-time, working interminable days and curling up around his clunky laptop at night, checking in every month, he knew when something was wrong with Sammie. He didn’t have a name for it, but Tyler was his favorite and he noticed that kind of thing, when Tyler was absent in videos, or abnormally quiet. When he was far too fast to anger, when he bit his tongue to stop words from flowing. 

Anthony took it then, too, empathized with the white-fire rage that strangles you, clenches like a fist around your throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut and ignored the tears collecting in the corners and pretended that he could go back to gaming with them. Not for the subscribers, never for the fame or money. He barely gets that anyway. He just needs an excuse to message Tyler every day.

It takes him less than a year to hire a replacement. 

* * *

Anthony thumps his head against the headrest in his car and hopes that the cookies in the passenger seat don’t have too much dog hair in them.

Tyler’s house is a long commute from his own, a tidy little bungalow far outside the Nashville city limits, just over four hours from Anthony. 

Tyler and Kelly had decided to move shortly after Samantha’s diagnosis. They thought she shouldn’t have to adjust to a wheelchair and an unfamiliar house at the same time.

Anthony ducks out of his car, clutching the container in one hand and locking the door with the other. It’s still new to him, the one-story house flat to the street, even when he visits every month, and he knows that there are still full boxes in the closets.

Anthony walks idly up the ramp, noticing the way the treads of his shoes catch on the texture of it. He lets himself in through the front door, remembering to knock gently when he sees Kelly poke her head around the corner from the kitchen. Her smile is genuine, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, which have started to hold a lingering, haunted look in them. Anthony’s noticed it in Tyler, too, when he stares for too long at the black screen on his monitor, unblinking. The lump rises in Anthony’s throat again.

Tyler appears, then, to give him a quick side hug and a light kiss on the temple before they’re both distracted by Samantha pounding down the stairs.

She’s not in her wheelchair, which means she’s having a better day than she has in a while, and it makes Anthony smile. “Here’s the birthday girl!” he cheers, dropping to one knee and opening his arms for a hug.

She beams back at him and comes forward to hug him. Even in that, Anthony has the lingering thoughts that remind him that this is not a normal girl. She clutches the handrail too tight to walk, crooks her other hand tight to her chest in that way that just lets you know. 

You just know.

She grins at the ceiling, and Anthony smiles as he hugs her tiny body because he knows it’s for him. She’s checking him out with that last little bit of vision she has left, looking at the ceiling to see him out of the corners of her eyes.

They almost make it through dinner before Sammie starts to shake. Tyler, sitting next to her, grabbed her head and helped her onto the floor, a motion too smooth, too well-practiced. There are some days Samantha has a dozen seizures in two hours. Today is practically quiet.

Anthony stays next to Kelly. He catches her fingers as she starts a timer on her watch, pretends he can’t feel her fingers trembling. She keeps rescue meds in her pocket, just in case the timer reaches five minutes.

Tyler confesses to him later, tells Anthony it surprised him that Sammie made it to thirteen. Anthony leans further into his side, trying to put pressure on the wound in his heart.

* * *

The problem with something like this — Anthony staunchly refuses to call the disease by its name — is how sad it makes you.

When you know someone with a terminal illness, the grieving process lasts months, years, and when it’s finished, you grieve again. Anthony’s been grieving since he found out.

Tyler has been grieving for longer.

Anthony cries with him some days. When Sammie ends up in the hospital, more often than not lately, Anthony packs extra tissues into his pockets. He brings his softest sweatshirt, because the tiny girl gets cold in white rooms, and a set of fancy calligraphy pens for her to wreck. He gets used to the hard plastic chairs and the nurses bringing him water and squeezing his shoulder. He sits and he clutches Tyler’s hand and bumps his knee against Kelly’s. On days like these, Samantha alternates between sleeping and seizing, and Kelly wipes her forehead with a cold cloth, and Tyler clutches Anthony’s hand so hard his fingers turn white. They all pretend they can’t hear the heart monitor fluctuate.

Some days, Anthony sits at his desk in their maybe-too-small office and Tyler doesn’t come in. Others he comes in late to recordings, and the only sign he does at all is the brush of his fingers over Anthony’s neck as he walks to his desk.

There are good days, too.

Anthony gets a calendar and circles the pleasant days. He tries to fill up an entire month one time, and almost gets there. Days where Tyler starts work before noon and laughs loudly when they record, where he gets angry and they can still hear the smile in his voice, days where Sammie’s sentences have more English words than not. When Tyler and Kelly both brush their hair. 

As time passes, Anthony takes smaller and smaller victories.

Samantha stood up today. She ate. Tyler and Kelly both ate. 

Sammie slept without seizing. She controlled her own wheelchair. Kelly’s cheeks stayed dry.

* * *

Anthony feels guilty when he grieves. It’s not his child wasting away, getting angrier and harder to force into schooling and more and more and more vulnerable. He spends nights sitting on the couch alone, with all the lights off, hand clamped over his mouth as tears and snot streak down his face. He knows Tyler and Kelly both need the sleep. An interruption is the last thing he wants to be.

He crawls back into bed with them, the numbers on the clock flicking higher than he wants them to be, and Kelly hums when his weight makes the bed dip, rolling over halfway to trace her fingers down his jaw sleepily. He lets his hand settle on the swell of her waist, tucking his body behind the curve of hers.

He’s struck with another flash of guilt. How dare he notice how she feels against him? Vulnerable as she is, and with him separated enough from her pain? How could he?

Anthony buries his face in Kelly’s hair and shuts his eyes.

* * *

Sammie’s almost fifteen, and her mom still likes to tie bows into her hair when she gets her dressed.

Anthony is grieving harder, and Tyler is trying harder to keep it together.

Anthony catches him talking to Brock, wild with a loose desperation, and knows it’s not the kind of conversation that will make Tyler feel better. It’s “Lamotragene isn’t working anymore” and “higher dosage” and “Dr. Pierce, researcher in South Dakota” and “cannabis oil slows it at least” and Anthony wants to scream. He wants to scream at Brock to stop because Tyler is self destructing, but he can’t. You can’t say stop to research like that, not if they believe there’s a chance anymore.

Anthony is grieving like Sammie is his own.

Kelly stays with her constantly, stays home to make sure her baby doesn’t choke while she eats her lunch because they haven’t had a feeding tube put in quite yet. It’s helped them relax a little knowing that Kelly is with her. Tyler gets to work more often than he did. 

Calm before the storm, Anthony thinks sometimes.

* * *

The last few days, Anthony almost wants to tell Sammie to give up. The eighteen-year-old never did let anything go easily.

Video production comes almost to a standstill. None of them can keep a mask on for long enough to produce content. Anthony can’t remember the last time his eyes were dry.

Tyler sits at his feet a lot, leaning his head against Anthony’s knees. He tells Anthony to knot his fingers in his hair, or he chews on his knuckles until blood comes to the surface, staining red like their bloodshot eyes. Anything that brings him back to earth, straightens his hunched shoulders. 

They lean against each other in the hospital room, neither strong enough to stand up all the way without the other. Even Kelly forgets to eat.

Anthony’s thoughts are muffled by the time he has to find his suit.

Tyler finally cracks as he stands next to his daughter’s coffin. He presses his hand firmly against his mouth and sobs, tears streaming down his face to stain his suit. Anthony can feel his great, hiccupping breaths as he rubs his back numbly.

Brock presses an old ribbon into Anthony’s hands later and tells him to give it to Kelly soon. His eyes are bloodshot and puffy, and Anthony watches him thumb at a photograph of Brianna as he walks away. He’s sure Brock is thankful that it’s not her in the coffin, and the thought makes him irrationally angry.

* * *

Grief is a funny thing to handle.

He goes home with Tyler and Kelly and it’s hard already because the house is quiet and useless. A house they moved into to make Sammie’s life easier, filled with items they can’t use. Her wheelchair sits by the front door, emptied before their last hospital visit.

Anthony sits on the bed and stares blankly at the wall. Kelly cries so hard she vomits, and Tyler abandons his post by the door to sit with her. He whispers soothing words and his voice breaks twice, hoarse from his turn earlier.

All three chase each other in cycles, comforting then breaking over and over again.

Anthony falls apart when they turn the lights off. Tyler lies in the middle of the bed, holding Kelly in his chest like he’s protecting her, and Anthony clings to his back and sobs. Kelly is touching him, rubbing his arm, and he’s howling with grief, abandonment, soaking the back of Tyler’s thin t-shirt with tears, and he feels the muscles in Tyler’s back shift as he twists to brush his lips over Anthony’s head, lips wet with tears spurned by Anthony’s own.

His breath is still unsteady when he falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.bdsra.org/
> 
> https://beyondbatten.org/
> 
> http://www.bdfa-uk.org.uk/
> 
> https://www.ninds.nih.gov/Disorders/Patient-Caregiver-Education/Fact-Sheets/Batten-Disease-Fact-Sheet
> 
> https://www.urmc.rochester.edu/neurology/batten-disease-center.aspx


End file.
